


With Your Dreams Untold

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, First Time, M/M, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 14:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12389901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: For the past ten years, Dean has been bookmarking porn on the laptop for Sam to watch. Sam figured it would never go further than that, until one night, not long after killing Hitler, Dean decides to be brave. One thing is for sure: Dean is never going to let Sam live down the fact thatpornis what brought them together, in the end. Set between 12x06 & 12x07, but not necessarily a coda."When Sam’s screen finally loads, he’s puzzled. Instead of a browser window with a video, his GMAIL account is up, with one new email from Dean. He sucks in a slow, steadying breath before clicking it open. The message has a video attachment, presumably from Dean’s cell phone, and nothing else. Instantly, adrenaline courses through Sam’s body, prickling icy-hot sweat under his arms and knees. He clicks on the attachment numbly, eyes trained on the screen. The thumbnail shows a bare-chested man with low-slung boxer briefs sitting on the edge of a bed, cupping the large bulge threatening to spill out."





	With Your Dreams Untold

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is a lot of things. 
> 
> **First:** to my sweet Ali, this is both your birthday fic  & not. I know I promised a J2, but I just couldn't find the words, so I started over, and this is what came of it. But I totally still owe you a J2. I owe ALL of you a J2, but most especially you, Ali-bo-Bali. I love you, beautiful girl. I cannot wait to see you in, like, 6 weeks. EEEEE. Happy birthday (shut up I know this is almost a month late).
> 
>  **Second:** thank you to [non_tiembo_mala](http://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala) and [NaughtyPastryChef](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPastryChef/pseuds/NaughtyPastryChef) for looking over this for me. Y'all are just amazing, and I adore you. Not to mention super ridiculously talented-- more on that in my end notes.
> 
>  **Third:** I'd say this is a lot more porny than my usual fare, but I'm just a sucker for a love story, so... not a PWP, but definitely worth the Explicit rating.
> 
>  **Last:** Posting this fic is a personal triumph. I recently had a big change that caused me to move on with my life, but I was scared that my creativity was tied to the pain I was in every day. Turns out the whole suffering for your art thing? It's bull. You can be happy and be creative and talented. Don't suffer for your art. Be happy. Please, please be happy. Xo

“Can I borrow your laptop, Sam?” 

Sam thought he heard Dean’s approach from the hallway, but he just figured he was shuffling to the kitchen for a late-night snack. There’s really no other reason for Dean Winchester to be awake at 12AM, so both Sam and Jody look up in surprise from the research with which they decided to pull an all-nighter.

It’s been a few weeks since Mary left, and there’s no real reason for Jody to be here, but she’s been hanging around a lot more lately. He doesn’t know if he can find the words to express his gratitude for her quiet acceptance, for her presence, for her validation. For her love. The way she reminds him and Dean, without saying a word, of family not ending in blood, that even if their blood mother wants space from them, their ‘mom’ figure for the past seven years (especially since Bobby died, like she just knew they needed some sort of parental figure in their lives, despite knowing how close friends of the Winchesters usually fare in the living category) wants them close without the pressure of needing anything specific from them. 

It’s been nice, is all, and even Dean has taken a backseat to Jody’s cooking, so they’ve both been a little spoiled over the past few days. It’s her last night here, and she’d volunteered her services with helping Sam’s constant reorganization project, but they both got caught up in their respective lore books, exchanging information every once in awhile. It’s been quiet, and it’s been wonderful. 

“What?” Sam asks Dean, even though he’s pretty sure he heard him correctly. He shakes his head, scratching at his nose as a piece of hair brushes against it. His eyes are tired, and the coffee they’ve been drinking has left him in this irritating exhausted-but-jittery state. His brother, on the other hand, looks thoroughly relaxed and rumpled with his wrinkled sweatpants and matted bed-head, and his broad, pale chest looks strong and warm.

“Can I borrow your laptop?” Dean repeats, moving into the library. “Hey, Jody. Don’t let him keep you up all night. He can be a real Nazi. And I would know, since… I killed Hitler.” 

Dean beams suddenly, a bright white thing against the pillow-creased flush of his cheeks, and Sam can’t help but grin back. Dammit. 

“Anything for the man who killed Hitler,” Sam drawls, rolling his eyes. At least, that’s what he’s doing on the outside. On the inside, he’s--

Okay, so, Jody isn’t just a hunter, right? She’s also a cop. And a mom. And she knows him. And he just can’t lie to her, so that’s why he’s doing everything he can not to squirm right there in his seat. He can’t believe Dean is asking that, right here, in front of Jody. 

He quickly hands it over, shooing Dean’s waggling eyebrows away. 

“Don’t stay up too late, Sammy,” Dean commands, like his word is law. Like Dean knows Sam will listen to him, just because he cared enough to say something about him not sleeping. Ugh. “Gotta give that big brain a rest, ya know?”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Sam answers instead, feeling Jody’s eyes on him.

They hear Dean’s bedroom door shut, and there’s silence for a few moments. Long enough that Sam thinks he’s just being paranoid, that Jody hasn't been staring holes through him the entire time. But then--

“Dean doesn’t have his own computer?” she asks finally, voice low, eyes trained casually on the pages of the book she’s reading. Too casually. 

Sam scratches at the back of his neck, tugging at the long strands he can reach. “Dean likes to share,” he answers finally, trying not to wince at how that sounded. “I dunno. He does have his own, I think. Or has access to one. But there was only need for one when we lived on the road, so even though we live in this big place and have our own rooms and stuff now… I dunno. Dean doesn’t like change. It’s not a big deal. He never, like, demands it while I’m using it.”

All of this is true, but. But. 

So. Sam has been playing the longest game of chicken probably ever. With Dean. For ten years. It was after their father died, when it started, but before Dean’s deal, and Sam had been ranting about Dean getting viruses on his computer from all his porn websites. Dean had all but ignored him, until--

“You know what, Sammy? Bet you wouldn’t be this uptight if you actually used my knowledge for good, instead of seeing it as evil. I’ll bookmark the one I was watching. You’ll like it.”

That had only infuriated Sam, at least at the time. But, dammit if they hadn’t been doing this dangerous little dance since Sam was old enough to know what his dick was for, and Sam was really fucking curious if Dean really _did_ know him well enough to know what kind of porn would get him off. 

Dean had absolutely shocked him, because not only was it something Sam liked-- to think of Dean watching it, getting hard, getting off to it, was mind-blowing. The video was of _just_ a guy, and not only that, it was a guy masturbating with a toy buzzing in his ass. A guy who was making it very clear just how much he liked it.

Sam had gotten hard so fast it was humiliating, and since then, whenever Dean asks to borrow his laptop, he'll watch some sort of gay porn on it, presumably get off to it, then leave it bookmarked for Sam to watch and get off on.

They had never gone any farther than that, and for a long time, it had been enough. Sam hadn’t been brave enough to cross that last line, either, so he couldn’t blame Dean. And it was enough that Dean continued to reaffirm that he still-- that-- well, whatever it was this whole thing meant-- year after year, up until this very day.

Lately, though, Dean has been getting braver. Not long after Sam was returned from the razor-sharp claws of the British Men of Letters, Dean had borrowed Sam’s laptop, and the video he left up was a homemade video with ‘brothers’ in the title. Again, Sam had gotten hard so fast it was ridiculous, and he wasn’t a fuckin’ kid anymore, either. He’d never clicked ‘play’ on something so fast in his life, barely getting halfway through the 15-minute video before coming so hard, he feared his eyes would get stuck crossed. 

And that’s why he can’t let Jody see this in him. Because he doesn’t know what it is, really. If he and Dean ever... and then Jody found out, well, he doesn’t think he’d be ashamed of it. He thinks Jody would understand. That’s certainly understanding shining in her hazel eyes as she looks up at him with a small smile.

“He likes to share, huh?” Jody murmurs, lightly knocking her socked foot against Sam’s shin.

The point is, he doesn’t want her to see it in him before Dean does. Because how truly pitiful would that be, for Jody to feel _sorry_ for him because his _brother_ doesn’t return the not-so-brotherly feelings he’s been pushing down, down, way down since he was a young teenager? Just how pathetic could he possibly be?

“I like to share with him, too,” Sam finishes softly, smiling at her over the table before continuing his reading, trying not to squirm. Trying not to think about what Dean is watching, probably right at this moment, what Sam will be watching later. 

He sees Jody’s fond smile and head shake out of the corner of his eye, and he thinks, _yeah, she would get it._

A couple hours later, Sam startles awake at the table. Apparently, his body had given up on staying awake without his mind’s consent, because he’s clearly been drooling heavily on a couple of his books. _Nice._

He rises slowly, stretching out his long, tired limbs before gently shaking Jody awake. She must have resigned herself to sleep after watching Sam give in, and it warms his heart that she didn’t go to bed. Instead, she stayed here, just in case Sam woke up and wanted to continue to work. 

“Go to bed, Jody,” he murmurs, helping his sleepy friend to her feet. “Thanks for all your help. Hit the hay before you have to drive back tomorrow, okay?”

Jody smiles at him sleepily, giving his face a soft pat. “You’re a good boy, Sam. ‘Night.”

Sam turns away before she can see his pleased flush. “‘Night.” 

He watches her turn down the hall in the direction of her room before he goes the opposite way, towards his own. He’s mostly asleep, bouncing off the narrow hallway every few steps before making it to his room. He shuffles in sleepily, closing the door behind him. 

His room is dark and cool, and he sighs in contentment as he peels off his dusty shirt, flinging it without aim. It lands on the bed, disturbing something on top of it, and suddenly the whole room glows with blue light. His laptop. Good. Dean must have returned it.

It takes his tired brain a minute, but when he remembers, he gasps. Dean, and the-- he has to see-- sleep can _wait_ \-- and even if he wanted to sleep, his body wouldn’t let him, because all the blood in his body flows south. Embarrassingly hard, once again.

He settles into bed quickly, his heart racing so fast it’s making his hands shake. He should be ashamed of himself, he knows, and he _is,_ but he’s been living with this thing, this weight inside of him, this shame over how he feels, the hope that Dean might feel the same way, for over twenty years, and he just-- it feels so close, now. Attainable in a way it's never been, in a way Dean has never been.

After he types in the password to unlock the desktop, he watches carefully as his screen loads. When they moved into the bunker, Dean became bolder in another way-- instead of just bookmarking it, he would leave the page open to the video, like he just knew Sam couldn’t waste precious time to find the page and load it himself. And goddammit if he wasn’t right; it’s almost Pavlovian, at this point, and every time he opens his laptop he has to fight a hard on.

Dean’s got him trained so well it’s infuriating. Well, it should be infuriating. It is, because Dean won’t freaking _do anything_ about it, but it’s also not, because it just makes Sam want Dean all the more, after being held back from him for so long. It lights up Sam on the inside in a way it shouldn't, because Dean doesn't play the long game. He's respectful of women and his one night stands, but Dean has never wanted for company, so if one girl takes too long to decide, he just moves on to the next. The fact that Sam can hold his attention like this, in this dark, secretive way, it makes him feel special, and like he's worth waiting for. 

But part of him thinks-- it’s like Dean’s been testing him, or something, because Sam used to be the runaway type, and Dean won’t give himself up just for Sam to leave him. 

Sam hasn’t wanted to leave Dean in a very long time. In fact, it’s Dean who’s been doing the leaving lately-- after Gadreel, then as a demon, and once more as a vessel for the Mark’s vengeance. And not wanting to leave him-- it’s not resignation, either, even though it sort of is. More like, it’s not resigning himself to a second place life, or something. 

It’s resigning himself to the fact that this, who he is, is exactly who he was always going to be. It’s taken him a long time to come to peace with that, but now that he has, he can’t imagine feeling that way without Dean. So, both the pragmatist and little brother in Sam agree: leaving Dean is not an option. Ever. 

Maybe that’s why this, between them, seems so… natural. Like a cycle, or a progression. Like it only makes sense to be feeling this way, because how could Sam ever hold someone else in his heart when Dean already takes up all the room? There could never be an acceptable placeholder in each other’s lives. No husband or wife, no boyfriend or girlfriend, no best friend or one night stand, no one could hold a candle even _close_ to what Dean means to him, and what he knows he means to Dean. 

If not for the lack of sexual intimacy between them, he would equate their relationship to almost a… well, a marriage. The kind of relationship where you always know who your number one is, and having that person fulfill many roles-- best friend, partner, confidante, lover, etc. Dean fills up all of those places except the last one, so it almost seems like they were destined to arrive here, together, at the same place, eventually. If the Winchesters are traveling from opposite directions towards each other, when will they meet, and at what speed will they collide? 

If only he and Dean were as simple as a math problem. 

When Sam’s screen finally loads, he’s puzzled. Instead of a browser window with a video, his GMAIL account is up, with one new email from Dean.

He sucks in a slow, steadying breath before clicking it open. The message has a video attachment, presumably from Dean’s cell phone, and nothing else. Instantly, adrenaline courses through Sam’s body, prickling icy-hot sweat under his arms and knees. He clicks on the attachment numbly, eyes trained on the screen.

Holy--

The thumbnail shows a bare-chested man with low-slung boxer briefs sitting on the edge of a bed, cupping the large bulge threatening to spill out. 

Sam feels like he’s wheezing. His nails press into the metal of his laptop so hard that he winces, and his lip is nearly chewed through. This is-- what is this? What is-- that’s-- it’s so clearly _Dean_ that Sam’s throat is dry and clicking. Dean, for the first time ever, has decided to create his own porn to send to Sam. 

He's never been more nervous to watch a video. Sam presses ‘play’ with adrenaline-shaking fingers, settling back into his bed. It doesn’t take five seconds for Sam to lose his pants and boxerbriefs, because he's not gonna act like his dick isn't already one hundred percent into what's going on. All of Sam, really, is at one hundred percent, and he shoves his clothes towards the foot of the bed with his toes. 

In the video, Dean is leaning back on one hand, and the other is trailing across his flushed, broad chest, plucking at his nipples. The camera’s microphone picks up a soft noise from the back of Dean’s throat, and Sam swears to god he can’t breathe. He cannot believe what he’s seeing. As he watches, Dean’s hips twist and roll to the pluck-pluck-pluck of his thick, calloused fingers against his soft, flushed nipples, and Sam’s own hips have subconsciously picked up the rhythm, causing his already dripping cock to slap wetly against his taut belly.

Just that small tap of friction against the head of his leaking dick has Sam gasping and arching off the bed, already so close he can’t believe it. Dean is so fucking beautiful it’s unreal, and he finds himself touching the screen, following Dean’s hand as it travels farther and farther south. It eventually lands on the big, thick cock tenting his brother’s shorts, and he watches as a dark spot blooms against the fabric as Dean milks himself slowly, almost like a tease.

“Jesus,” Sam whimpers as Dean tugs his shorts down, snapping the band behind his balls. 

His brother’s cock is long-- maybe just a little shorter than Sam’s, but thicker, darker, with a few protruding veins visible through the thin, soft skin. He doesn't know why he expected Dean to be noticeably smaller than Sam is, but he's not at all, and Sam’s hole clenches at the thought of that thick root burrowing up inside him. He chews his bottom lip as Dean trails a finger over the wet tip of his cock, gasping at the feeling, throwing his head back.

And that’s it, that's officially all he can take. Sam gets a hand on his cock, a tight ring around the base for a good ten seconds as he watches Dean jerk and gasp at the light, tickling touch he’s creating. Finally, Dean relents, panting, and he wraps his wide palm around the meat of him.

Sam is panting just as loudly as Dean, the sound through the microphone tinny and distorted. Dean’s head is still thrown back, and Sam watches as his sweaty, blushing throat works as he gets closer and closer to his big finish. His big brother’s fat, chewed-red lips are mumbling something, but his head is tipped too far back for Sam to make out what he’s saying.

Sam’s balls draw up tightly to his body as he works a hand down under his ass cheek, so his long fingers can trail around the rim of his hole, just barely pushing in, more of a maddening tease that goes a long way in helping push Sam over the edge. Not that he needs any help; he’s going to save this video and play it every day for the rest of his life. His brother is hot like fire, the most dangerously beautiful thing Sam has ever seen.

He can't imagine someone else turning him on like this, in the way Dean has so effortlessly done. No one has ever had him gasping and close to coming this fast without being directly involved. It's a heady, weighty thought, wondering if Dean is thinking about him right now, wondering if Sam is watching Dean come for him, for Sam. 

Dean is full-out gasping in the video now, hips rocking as he fucks his fist, lips still working against silent words. Sam is on the brink of coming, but when he finally hears what Dean is saying, he _yelps_ (oh, god, Dean probably heard that), coming hard, in thick, insistent pulls, all the way up to his nipples.

“Sammy, Sammy,” Dean is groaning as he wrings himself dry, hips twisting and thrashing as he chases the last bit of his orgasm.

Sam sits, stunned, come cooling on his chest. He watches Dean as he stands up from the bed, shuffling towards the camera. The video stops, landing on the thumbnail of Dean cupping his dick, and Sam’s own dick gives a weak twitch.

Holy shit. 

Holy shit. That just happened. That just-- 

Is Dean lying in his bedroom awake, waiting for Sam’s (hopefully, maybe) physical reaction? Or did Dean just roll over, calm as you please, and dive into a wonderfully peaceful sleep? Sam doesn’t know, but he knows one thing for sure. There’s no way he can--

Dean has decided to be brave, and Sam is astonished, really. He doesn’t know if he’d ever have the guts to do what Dean just did-- or initiate it, anyway. But Dean has been initiating this between them all along, and although he must know Sam doesn’t mind it, Sam wonders if there’s a bigger plan involved, or if Dean’s just winging it. Just feeling him out, and hoping he doesn’t miss the mark.

He hasn’t so far, it’s true. But they’ve never discussed it, not once, so this-- Dean sending that, it-- Sam thinks something like this definitely requires a discussion. At least a short one, and he knows if he climbs into Dean’s bed tonight, after that, there will be absolutely no talking. Sam needs a little distance from this to think on his next move, to plan his response. Plus, as understanding as Jody would probably be, he doesn’t want to scar his friend for life. 

So Sam lays there, and he thinks. He thinks really (still very) hard.

The next morning, Sam wakes to the smell of what could be pancakes and what is definitely bacon and coffee, so he shuffles his groggy ass out of bed, yawning. He stumbles down the hallway towards the showers, rubbing at his sleepy eyes.

Twenty minutes later, he’s coming into the kitchen on alert. As his brain came online under the warm, pounding spray, he remembered what life-altering thing happened last night, and how it kept him awake for hours as he formulated a plan. 

So, yes. Yeah, he has a plan. He thinks it might even be a good plan, but that doesn’t mean he’s not nervous as hell. 

Especially considering Dean is infuriatingly normal over breakfast. He loads Sam’s plate with more pancakes and bacon than he could ever eat in one sitting, talking with Jody about a potential case she found in one of the many morning papers she reads online. Dean kicks Sam under the table when he’s a smartass, but his touch doesn’t linger any longer than normal, and unless Dean is looking away exactly when Sam looks, he hasn’t been checking Sam’s face on the down-low.

It makes the greasy bacon settle in his stomach like curdled milk. He doesn’t know how he could’ve possibly misinterpreted Dean’s video, but. But. He’s been wrong before, even when he couldn’t see it. Maybe… maybe even especially when he couldn't see it. 

Dean rises from the table first, taking their plates over to the sink. Jody gets up next, saying she needs to throw a couple more things in her bag before she gets on the road. Sam continues to sit, picking at his nails as his hands fidget on top of the table, where he can still feel the warmth of the plate Dean just removed. 

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asks lowly as he stacks the plates in the sink. 

Sam just shrugs his shoulders, because he’s not sure; he’s not sure of anything right now, really. Dean’s bare feet slap against the kitchen floor, and suddenly he’s right there, stomach pressed against Sam’s upper back and shoulders. Dean’s hand trails across Sam’s skin, fingers dipping into the veed neck of his sleep shirt, drawing his fingerprints against Sam’s collarbone.

“You okay?” he asks again, fingers moving deeper inside Sam’s shirt to cup his racing heartbeat. It’s a focused, claiming touch, like Dean is holding it in his hand, protecting it. Keeping it both safe, and all to himself. As he ventures lower, the tip of his finger barely grazes Sam’s nipple, but Sam can't help his desperate reaction. 

“Yeah,” he gasps, because _yes,_ yeah, god yeah he’s okay, right here. 

“Hmm,” Dean answers finally, his warm hand leaving Sam’s shirt, but the touch lingers in the heat against Sam’s skin. Dean’s fingers find Sam’s hair, twisting the strands between his strong digits, before scratching lightly at his scalp. Sam can’t help the moan that slips out of him. 

“Boys?” Jody calls suddenly from down the hallway, their cue to carry her luggage out to the garage, where her police SUV is idling. It really bums him out to see her leave, but he knows she's needed more back home. Well, maybe not more, but she has far and away met her responsibility towards them (she has none, really, but she says she does, and that's enough), and Alex still has a chance to be something besides a hunter. Sam and Dean, not so much. Alex needs her guidance more than they need her steady presence. 

As Sam stands, Dean backs away to give him space. As soon as Sam is all straightened up and out, Dean takes a hold of Sam’s forearms, gripping them tightly. Dean watches his own steady hands as he does this, like he’s unable to watch himself through Sam’s eyes, can’t see himself be so vulnerable.

“Promise you’re okay?” he murmurs at his hands.

Sam can’t help the affection that erupts in him. Dean, always the big brother, always checking in with Sam to make sure he’s with him. Always letting Sam know that his comfort level is the most important thing, here. That Sam is the most important thing here, period. 

He touches his forehead to Dean’s, briefly, and when he backs away, Dean looks up at him. His eyes are bright and clear, but guarded-- hopeful, but terrified. It’s a beautiful look on him, Sam’s brother. And not just because Dean himself is beautiful, which he is, absurdly so, with his strong, straight back and devastating smile, and those full, pink lips that Dean is always messing with, taunting him, he swears to god. 

It’s beautiful because Sam is making Dean look this way-- like he’s scared of wanting something, wanting someone so badly.

Their eyes meet, and Sam can’t help but smile when Dean squeezes his forearms again. 

“Promise, Dean,” and with the way Dean’s shoulders slump (almost imperceptibly, if only Sam didn’t know him better than that) in what looks like relief, Sam knows Dean heard a whole lot more than just that. 

After hugging Jody goodbye, they fork off in different directions into the Bunker. Dean goes to his room to change into coveralls to work on the car, and Sam goes to the library to continue working on the organizing system Jody had helped him set up. The day goes by much like that, with Dean plopping a sandwich in front of him with a squeeze to the shoulder around noon, but as the afternoon draws closer to evening, Sam’s stomach starts to flip in dizzying little circles.

When Dean starts banging around in the kitchen, Sam stops his work in the library with a sigh. Dean’ll be in there cooking for at least an hour, and with the way he’s whistling like he’s about to cook them something _awesome_ for dinner, Sam knows Dean is distracted enough that now is his chance to gather his supplies. 

In the back of his mind, he’s been thinking about his plan, going over mental checklists and psyching himself up. He had been about to call it off altogether before Dean’s little check-in in the kitchen earlier, but after that, the plan was so very back on. He still thinks it’s a good plan. Besides, he knows that he’ll never truly be ready, and sometimes he has to trust his gut and take a leap of faith. And. And… well, it’s not like Dean was being subtle, anyway.

He’s just-- it’s just-- fuck it. It’s a good plan. That’s all. It’ll either work spectacularly, or fail spectacularly. He’s all in, either way.

And it’s go time. 

A couple hours later, Sam is seriously doubting his plan will ever going into action. After dinner (which was awesome, just as Sam predicted), Dean had suggested binge-ing _Stranger Things_ again, and Sam couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no. Not one that wouldn’t hurt Dean’s feelings and ruin the whole night, anyway.

Sam is trying his best not to squirm, but it’s really, _really_ hard. _He_ is really, really hard. Not only is his anxiety and uncertainty ramping up with each moment that passes, but part of his plan is quite literally making him squirm in his seat. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and it still does, but-- god, how long can he sit like this without Dean noticing?

“Everything okay, fidget?” Dean murmurs a few seconds later. Not long at all, apparently. 

“Yeah,” Sam answers quietly, because it is, but…

“Sammy,” Dean warns, giving him another chance to tell the truth.

“It is,” Sam insists, turning to face his brother. 

He grabs for the laptop at their feet, bringing it to his lap. He minimizes the browser window, ignoring Dean’s squawk of protest-- it's the van flipping episode of _Stranger Things,_ and that's Dean’s favorite part. Sam rolls his eyes as Dean sulks, bringing up Dean’s GMAIL account quickly, just out of sight from his brother’s sharp gaze. 

“I just,” Sam starts, opening the email he’d sent to Dean from his phone just a minute ago, “I was just... wondering.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, his beautiful face patient and calm. He got over the sulking quickly, probably able to tell Sam is wigging the hell out over something. His brother’s serenity soothes Sam’s nerves, reminding him that this is still Dean, this is still his brother. Dean loves him, will always love him, no matter what. 

“What were you wonderin’, Sammy?” 

Sam clicks on the link to the private live feed he’d set up to his room, where his phone is set up on a tripod at foot of his bed, camera on. When it comes into focus, he meets Dean’s eyes over the laptop.

“I was wondering if… if you wanted to, uh. If you wanted to borrow my laptop.” 

Dean holds his gaze steadily, calmly, despite the blush Sam tries not to notice creeping up Dean’s neck. Sam nods, once, encouraging, and Dean lets out a huge breath, less like a sigh, more like an exorcism. 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, voice deep and whiskey-low. “Yeah, I-- okay.” He holds his hands out for the computer, and Sam gives it to him, letting him see the screen for the first time.

He watches Dean make sense of what he’s seeing. He knows when it clicks, when Dean gets it, when Dean realizes he’s seeing Sam’s room, Sam’s (currently) empty bed. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, his starkly green eyes snapping to Sam’s once more. They’re both dark and bright at the same time, traveling every inch of Sam’s face, looking for affirmation. For hope.

“Okay?” Sam asks, sounding a lot more confident than he feels. 

Truly, he feels like his insides are trembling, shaking apart, with adrenaline or fear or excitement, he’s not sure. Maybe all three. Probably all three. The way Dean’s looking at him makes him feel buoyant and heavy at the same time, and the weight of his gaze seems to settle like a calming touch to his face.

Dean’s eyes go back down to the screen. His jaw is working, teeth clenched as he mulls it over. Sam watches as the bulb of his jawbone protrudes from under his sharp cheekbone, and he wants Dean so bad, he hurts with it. 

“Yeah,” Dean finally whispers. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sam doesn’t know how he makes it back to his room-- he floats, maybe, or crawls. 

Before he settles back onto his bed, he strips himself quickly, naked except for his birthday suit. He can almost feel Dean’s gaze on him through the small, front-facing camera on his phone, and it’s another good weight. A welcome one. And-- and a vital one. 

Ignoring his shaking fingers and rattling heart, he lies flat on top of his covers, arching his back just slightly. He pulls his knees up, keeping them closed, with his feet flat to the bed, his adrenaline-twitchy fingers resting on his taut stomach. He can feel his heartbeat here, too, feels it everywhere, like it’s trying to match the pulse of the beautiful man down the hall. 

Sighing, he shuts his eyes, willing himself to get lost in it, to be natural with it. He might be putting on a show for Dean, but he’s not putting on an act. There’s no point in acting around Dean, anyway, because he can sniff it out faster than a hellhound, and it’s freeing, really, to want to be open with someone like this. To not be scared to show his vulnerabilities, the parts that aren’t so beautiful, because the person he's showing them to already knows it all, anyway. Knows it, accepts it, and loves him despite (or maybe in spite of) it. 

A deep breath through his nose, and his long, librarian fingers trail down his shins, in teasing, swirling patterns that make his legs want to fall apart, spread wide, but he resists for just a little bit longer. He smoothes his hands down his thighs, over his knees to grip at his shins, and then he gives in, pulling himself apart to show Dean what he’s been hiding.

Sam can feel more than hear Dean’s sharp gasp, but it runs through him anyway, makes him feel powerful, electrically beautiful under his big brother’s second-party gaze. Part of his plan included replicating the first video Dean had ever bookmarked for him, the one that started it all, so he’d fingered himself open, panting with the force it took not to come, before taking a brand new black butt-plug all the way on his first try. 

It’s been quite a day.

Sam can feel it inside him now, heavy and full, as he lifts his knees higher. He has to touch his cock; he’s been denying himself all day to build up to this, to make it sweeter, but now he regrets it because he’s a hair-trigger away from spilling already. It doesn’t take long for him to lose himself in it, and he drags a soft finger over one of his tight nipples, really arching his back for the camera. For Dean.

It’s not thirty seconds later when his door slams open, banging so hard against the doorstop on the wall that Sam yelps, dropping his cock like it’s on fire. Dean is standing in his doorway, leaning against it like it’s all that’s keeping him standing.

He’s flushed, red and splotchy all the way up his chest and into his hairline, naked except for his boxer-briefs (and socks, which should be dorky and not adorable), and panting so hard it’s clear that he sprinted all the way here.

“Dean?” Sam asks finally, when it’s clear that speaking is beyond Dean at the moment. He doesn’t know what to make of this reaction, and it’s definitely not the one he was expecting (he’s not even sure if he was expecting a reaction at all). Dean looks terrified, his eyes wide and haunted, shimmering with emotion, and he keeps swallowing, trailing his eyes over Sam’s long, exposed body.

“Sammy, I-- I can’t,” Dean says finally, sounding miserable.

However miserable Dean sounds, it doesn’t even touch the sinking stone in Sam’s gut, and the way what made him feel powerful and sexy two minutes ago is now making him feel humiliated and ashamed. He goes for his sheet, desperate to cover himself, but then, Dean says:

“I’m not-- I’m not… I can’t be strong like you. It’s-- I. _Sammy.”_

Sam’s mind is whirling, because even though that sentence was a whole lotta nothing, he’s fortunately fluent in Dean-speak. And because of that, the sinking stone in his chest has suddenly sprouted wings, and it’s at the edge of a cliff, daring him to jump. Daring him to fly. 

Sam stands, slowly, and Dean watches his every move, traces every inch of skin exposed to him. The closer Sam gets, Dean’s expression changes from guilt and shame to something more hopeful. It's one of the most humbling things Sam's ever witnessed, Dean wanting him, but being too afraid because it means too much. He knows exactly how that feels. 

“You’re so-- so, fuck. _Fuck_ , you’re so goddamn pretty, Sammy,” Dean groans finally, looking up at him through his long, dark lashes. “Goddammit, I’m not-- I’m not strong like you. I can’t-- I can’t resist. Not when-- not when it’s-- when you’re... this way, too.” 

It’s not a question, but Sam hears the question there anyway. He holds out his hand to his brother, who takes it readily, with a firm, sure grip. The hope in his eyes is more beautiful than the iris green, more beautiful than any color he’s ever seen. He squeezes Dean’s hand, pulling him towards the bed, because he can’t jump, he can’t fly without Dean. And he wants to so badly.

Sam pulls them down until they’re both sitting, their bodies turned towards each other. It feels like they’re standing on a precipice, procrastinating the inevitable fall. Dean’s eyes trace every inch of Sam’s face, like he’s just waiting to see a crack in the beautiful marble, a second of hesitance, of sacrifice. 

Sam can’t blame Dean, so he decides to show him, instead. He takes Dean’s hand, moving it slowly down towards Sam’s stomach, making his next move clear. Dean’s palm is warm and a little damp against the skin of Sam’s vulnerable, naked belly, where it rests, with Dean’s fingers twitching. The taut muscles beneath the thin, soft skin of Sam’s abdomen jump in response, his body unable to hide his nerves over being completely naked in front of Dean, exposed to Dean, in every way possible. 

Dean sucks in a sharp breath as Sam guides his hand up, grazing the weapon-born calluses of his palm against Sam’s nipple, making them both gasp. Sam throws his head back, and Dean gains confidence, moving his hand on his own now, up and up and up, over Sam’s shoulders and neck, before it rests, fingers clenched in the strands of soft hair at the nape of Sam’s neck.

They’re both breathing heavily, eyes locked like they can’t look away, like they’re afraid that they’ll miss something vital. But how could they, when everything vital is right here, not two inches away? Now that he’s so close, Sam doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to handle being far away again. An addict through and through.

“Sammy,” Dean finally whispers, his voice thin like it’s been flattened under the Impala’s tires. “Can I-- let me. Let me kiss you. Please.”

Sam’s nod must look frantic, and he knows the way he pulls Dean down to the bed so he’s laying all his weight on top of Sam is completely, openly desperate, but he doesn’t care one iota. Dean laughs, but not meanly, more like he can’t hide his surprised joy at Sam’s not only willingness, but neediness. 

Dean hovers over him on his elbows and forearms, knees planted firmly on either side of Sam’s naked hips. He drops suddenly, pressing their hard cocks together for the first time, and even through Dean’s boxer briefs, it makes Sam groan, but it’s only a distraction from the real event.

Dean’s lips, damp and soft and fat, brush his so softly it’s a tease, just the slightest pressure. Sam swears he does it just to make Sam push up into it, which he does, but all that accomplishes is Dean anchoring him to the bed with his hand in Sam’s hair. It makes Sam moan, spine melting as the sharp tingles running down his spine from his scalp make him lose the point for a moment.

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, right there, right against his mouth. 

“Dean,” Sam answers, because that’s all they’ve ever needed to say, the highest truth they’ve ever known.

Dean drops the rest of the way down, covering him from knee to groin to chest and finally, finally to lips. The first full press of their open, gasping mouths causes a desperate, hurt noise to erupt from the back of their throats, and then-- then, they’re ravenous.

Sam can’t get Dean close enough, raking his nails down his brother’s strong back, causing Dean to bite at Sam’s bottom lip so hard he hisses, retaliates by working his hands underneath Dean’s boxer briefs to palm at his thick, muscled ass. Dean is too distracted by Sam’s mouth to care, but he groans as Sam’s finger brushes his tight, dry hole, licking at Sam’s teeth as he hesitantly pushes back into the sensation.

“You ever?” Sam asks as Dean’s bruising, searching tongue leaves his mouth to trail down his neck. Sam arches to give him more room with which to work, and he completely forgets he asked a question until Dean answers.

“No,” Dean mumbles, biting at Sam’s jaw before dragging his mouth and rough 5 o’clock shadow across Sam’s cheek to hover his swollen mouth over Sam’s once more. “Never been with a guy,” he whispers into Sam’s mouth as he kisses him again, like it’s a secret for Sam to keep. Like it’s everything for Sam to keep, and Jesus _Christ,_ does he _ever_ intend to keep this. 

“Me neither,” Sam admits finally, which reminds him of the butt plug that’s been sitting heavy in his guts for the past few hours. “Always wanted to, and I-- I came close a few times, but it never-- I didn’t want--”

Dean groans, melting his mouth over Sam’s once more. His tongue is wicked, soft and pliant before becoming a hard point that explores every inch of Sam’s mouth, like he’s swallowing down every flavor of every moan he can draw from his baby brother. 

“Say it,” Dean begs, pressing sweet kisses against Sam’s cheeks, eyelids, like he’s so overwhelmed with tenderness for his Sammy at the moment, all he can do is be gentle. “Tell me. Tell me why you never slept with another guy. Tell me why you denied yourself. Tell me.”

Sam is panting with the heat behind Dean’s words, the command, the begging. He knows what Dean’s asking for, and god, he’s so right, he’s so completely right, because, “I couldn’t do it, Dean. Wanted you. And I-- I knew it’d never be enough. No one could ever make me feel like you could. Wanted to--” He stammers here, because what he’s about to say is just filthy-wrong, even for two brothers about to have sex, “...I was, um… I was saving myself for _you,_ Dean.”

Dean groans loudly, his whole body shuddering, pressing wild, wet kisses anywhere he can reach. “Been waitin’ all your life for big brother to pop your cherry, hmmm, baby?" 

“ _Yes,_ Dean, _god_ \--” 

“Shhh,” Dean murmurs, sweet again suddenly. He holds Sam’s face still with his thumb and forefinger against Sam’s chin, his blown-out pupils looking at him with something like wonder. He kisses Sam so sweetly, like he’s a gentle, fragile thing that Dean intends to cherish, to care for. To-- to love. 

“God, Sammy,” Dean whispers finally, backing away, up off the bed to rid himself of his boxer-briefs and socks. He stands at the foot of the bed, just looking his fill, and it’s not humiliating to Sam, not anymore. He wants Dean to look, because it’s all for him, and it always has been. And now, Dean finally knows it. 

Sam arches his back, spreading his legs slightly, moaning at the shift of the plug inside him. Dean crawls up the foot of the bed, right between the vee of Sam’s legs like he owns the place, like he was made for Dean to fit right there, perfectly. And he does fit there; _god,_ does he ever. 

He grabs Sam’s legs up under the thigh, pushing his hips up and legs back and back and back, until his knees touch his chest. Sam has no shame at this point, so he lets Dean look, working the muscles of his hole, wanting Dean to see the way the plug shifts inside him, the shiny pinkness of his rim contracting and releasing as the lube spills out from around the base. 

“Fuckin’ christ,” Dean breathes. “Sammy, I-- I gotta say this, just-- just real quick.” He plants a kiss to the underside of Sam’s knee, traveling up his calf with his soft, abused lips. “I will never, ever deserve you, but if you-- if you let me, I swear to god I will spend the rest of my-- the rest of _our_ lives trying to. You’re my-- my whole life, Sam. My whole fucking life, so I-- I can’t walk away from this now. I’ll never be able to, and if you-- if you leave me, I’ll-- Sammy, I’ll--” 

Sam can’t help the exhausted, relieved tears welling up behind his eyes. “No leaving, Dean,” he whispers. “Retirement home or blaze of glory. You and me. For-- forever. Always. In California, in Hell, in all my best dreams, and right here. I-- I have _always_ been yours.”

Dean just has to duck down for another kiss, Sam’s calves resting over his shoulders. They get a little lost in it, in the newness of it, the taste of each other’s mouths, so familiar yet so taboo, so thrilling. Not to mention Dean is a fucking phenomenal kisser, as if Sam had any doubt he would be, so it’s no wonder he forgets about the sex part until his legs start cramping. He may be limber, but he’s also in his mid-thirties. 

Sam starts wiggling his hips, so Dean backs away, letting one of Sam’s legs fall to the side as he keeps the other raised, his heel in Dean’s hand. 

“God, Sammy, you’re just the-- the most stunning thing--” As he says this, he reaches a hand out, fingers nudging at the plug inside Sam’s hole.

Sam gasps, back arching off the bed in a perfect bow, nipples tightening instantly. And just like that, they’re on fire again, desperate. Sam grapples for Dean, grabbing at his hair to bring him back up because he wants more of that mouth on his own. Dean kisses him for a moment, rhythmically pushing against the plug in a way that makes Sam’s eyes cross, and Dean murmurs to him that he’s got the prettiest whimpers he’s ever heard. 

Dean travels back down quickly, though, stopping at Sam’s drooling, weeping cock. Dean whistles lowly, wrapping a firm palm around the meat of him, and Sam cries out, so close to coming he wants to cry.

“Dean, god, don’t--” He whines as Dean lowers his head, licking out at the fluid leaking from the purple, throbbing tip of Sam’s cock. “I’m gonna-- I’m gonna c-come so soon,” he pants, “and I wanna-- I want you-- inside. When that-- I wanna--” He’s making no sense, but Dean gets him, giving him a soothing pat on the flank that stops his babbling.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, Sammy-baby,” Dean promises in a sweet, whiskey-sugar tone, sucking slightly at the engorged head of his baby brother’s cock. “But first, you’re gonna come in my mouth.”

It takes half a dozen pushes of Dean’s fingers against the plug and just the barest amount of suction to the head of his cock, all wrapped up in Dean’s lips, before Sam proves his brother right, coming so hard his hips leave the bed, and he shouts at the ceiling, louder than he can ever remember being. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean breathes, tugging at Sam’s cock to wring him dry, licking his lips to get any remnants of Sam’s come from his lips. Dean just-- Dean just _swallowed_ Sam’s come, he just-- _holy--_

He frantically pulls Dean down to his mouth, and Dean hums for Sam’s voracious kiss, letting him taste the satisfaction, the job well done, as he sucks on Dean’s tongue, coming down from his orgasm.

The next thing he knows is Dean whispering for him to take a breath, and then there’s a deep, satisfying sort of pressure that pushes wider and wider, until it releases completely with an audible sound that makes him shiver. Dean wraps the plug in his discarded boxer-briefs, setting it aside to be cleaned after. 

Sam keeps his legs spread, can't spread them any wider, if he’s honest, and he hikes up his hips to show Dean how open he is, how ready. He’s shaking, and he doesn’t know why-- he’s not nervous, but he’s… he’s _something,_ and his big brother, his Dean, sees it in him. 

Dean covers him with his body once again, but without intent. Just for comfort, just for his touch. He thumbs Sam’s face, his cheekbones and jawline, pushing back his sweaty hair to stare at every inch he touches. Sam didn’t think it was possible for someone to ever look at him like Dean is right now, like all the world could fit right here, between their locked eyes. 

When Sam stops shaking, Dean’s hand moves south again, thumbing gently at Sam’s sore nipples before continuing its journey. Sam is still half-hard, like his body knows he’s not done yet, and he’s so very, very not. Dean cups his cock gently, then his balls, squeezing once before palming them, moving them up, out of the way. His roughened fingers are gentle as they find Sam’s open, dripping hole, and Dean groans heartily, like Sam is killing him.

Dean starts to push one finger in, but a second joins it at the last minute, and they both slip in with ease. Sam grabs at Dean’s shoulders, digging his nails into the freckled, muscled flesh, little ‘ah, ah, ah’ whimpers escaping his throat as his big brother’s fingers push deeper. 

Sam doesn’t know how much time passes, but suddenly, Dean’s weight is on him again, and he’s whispering in his ear:

“Look like you taste so damn good, Sammy, promise I’ma lay you out and eat that pretty hole for hours but I gotta-- I gotta--”

Sam nods, just as desperate as Dean’s words, and both their hands find Dean’s cock as Sam’s knee hooks over Dean’s shoulder. Sam guides Dean’s hot, thick cock directly to his hole, and Sam doesn’t let go for the entire push in, letting Dean’s cock slide through his loosened grip as their hips move together to push Dean inside. Sam’s feeling it both on the inside and the outside as Dean completes him, once and for all. 

Once Dean bottoms out, he falls forward with a gasp. Now, he’s the one who’s shaking, and Sam tells him so, but softly, because he’s not making fun. Not at all. They don’t move for a while, just feeling each other out, and it’s nothing like the plug, nothing at all, because it’s _Dean_ inside him, a living, breathing thing, giving off heat and unconscious movements, and Sam can feel the pounding of his blood, of his heart, of his soul where they’re connected. They also don’t move for a while because Sam suspects Dean is very, very close to coming, no matter how long he waits, because he’s been rock hard this entire time, denying himself so Sam could feel how much his needs come first.

He disagrees with that, but knows he will have time to show Dean that what Sam needs is what Dean needs. That they’re one in the same. But right now, Sam needs Dean to--

“Move, Dean, _god._ F-fuck me with that big dick; I _need_ it--”

Dean makes some sort of primal noise, a mixture of a growl and a whimper. “G-god, S-sammy, I’m gonna-- I’m gonna come so fuckin’ fast, I--”

“I know,” Sam moans, hiking his hips up to make Dean shift inside him, and it has them both gasping, arching, the holy ghost moving, too. “I know, want it, want it so bad--”

That’s about all Dean can take of Sam’s filthy mouth it seems, because he lifts up onto his knees, pushing Sam’s legs back to his chest. He uses the meat of Sam’s thighs, right where they turn into the soft bend of his knees to grip and balance his weight as he digs his knees into the mattress. He doesn’t let up eye contact with Sam the entire time, and Sam would swear that Dean can hear his heart beating. He can see that heartbeat reflected in Dean’s eyes, can feel it in his own blood. The blood they share, Sam and Dean Winchester. Brothers. Partners. And now-- and now this. 

Sam’s arms wrap around Dean’s neck, pulling him closer. He’s been looking at Dean from a distance his whole life, in quick, guilty glances. He never thought, not in a million years, that not only would Dean let him look, but that he’d let him participate-- beyond, be the _reason_ his brother looks the way he does now. The sweat dripping from his hairline down his face, salting his bitten raw, red lips, the fluttering, long eyelashes over his bright, focused eyes, focused directly on Sam. Like they have been Sam’s entire life. God, his brother is so beautiful it’s unreal. It’s unreal that this beautiful man, this miracle, this hero, this martyr, this warrior-- all of him belongs to Sam. And right now, at this very moment, Sam is letting Dean belong to all of him, too.

Dean’s hips start a slow, teasing grind that scrapes his big brother’s thick cock against Sam’s prostate, causing his toes to twitch and curl by Dean’s ears, but soon enough, Dean’s hips are pounding into Sam’s. They’re both groaning, but Sam’s noises are more up in his nose, high and breathy, while Dean’s are down in his throat, in his gut. Sam would never say so, but he thinks they sound fucking beautiful together.

The slap of Dean’s heavy balls against Sam’s red ass is almost louder than the panting, groaning gasps and utterances to god and each other, over and over, a prayer and a damnation all in one. Suddenly, Dean drops to his elbows, his hips never losing their tempo, because he’s a master at this, and just like the kissing, Sam can’t even be surprised. But Sam knows he’s good at this too, so when Dean eats at his mouth, Sam gives as good as he can get, opening wide to let his brother taste him, taste how good he feels, how much he loves him. 

“Ah, fuck--” is the only warning Sam gets before Dean’s hips lose their beat, stuttering as Dean gasps into Sam’s mouth, his inhales bringing Sam’s loose, puffy lips back into Dean’s mouth for him to suck on as he unloads a lifetime's worth of pent-up love into his little brother’s body. 

Sam hasn’t come again, but he’s completely okay with that. He’s still turned on, but it’s more distant now that Dean’s resting against his chest, breathing a disbelieving little laugh that turns into kisses all along Sam’s chest, using his teeth to playfully pull at Sam’s dark chest hair, which earns Dean a lazy swat to the back of the head. 

But Dean has other ideas, it seems, because as soon as Dean catches his breath, he’s back down between Sam’s legs, throwing each long, jelly-like limb over his shoulders. He hitches Sam’s hips up, pulling his ass cheeks apart to stare at his little brother’s abused, puffy hole, leaking with globs of come put there by big brother himself. Sam hasn’t felt shy this whole time, but now he does, squirming under Dean’s gaze, watching Dean witness just how wrecked Sam is for all of this.

Any protests go straight out the window when Dean, without preamble, drives his tongue straight into Sam’s pouting, leaking hole, licking at his sore insides. Sam instantly goes from distantly turned on to his cock leaping against him tummy to make a wet sound as the rock hard length smacks back down.

“Oh god, oh oh _oh_ god, Dean, _god--”_ Sam can’t shut up, but this is-- this is-- 

He’s heard so many stories, stories he both couldn’t help but overhear and tried desperately to pick up every word about his brother’s mouth, his brother’s tongue, the things he could do with it. He remembers being a freshman in high school and overhearing several of the older girls comparing notes, and he thinks that was one of the first times he realized that he was _jealous._ Jealous that other people got some part of his brother he was never allowed to have. Especially when he knew exactly how amazing Dean was, exactly how much he deserved to be worshiped. To be adored. 

“Promised you I’d eat this sweet little hole, didn’t I, Sammy-boy? Taste so good, little brother, fuck. _We_ taste good.” And that’s when Sam remembers that not only is Dean eating Sam out, he’s literally eating his own come out of Sam, and that just-- oh my _god--_

Sam gets a hand around his cock, and Dean hums his approval, hitching Sam’s hips up further so he can really get at his hole. He laves at it softly, tickling almost, before pointing the muscle and pushing it all the way inside him, as far as it will go. He repeats this move several times, adding a suck to the rim somewhere in there, and Sam is babbling again, so close to coming his fucking brains out for the second time in thirty minutes, he can’t fuckin’ help it--

“Was so-- s-so jealous of everyone that got to use your m-mouth,” Sam grits out, stripping his cock faster and faster to match the thrusts of Dean’s tongue. His big brother groans at Sam’s words, and the vibrations just bring him that much closer, dangling him that much farther off the edge. “W-wanted it to b-be your mouth on me, Dean, on _me,_ not those girls. Wanted--” He’s so close now that his balls have drawn up so tightly they’re practically crawling back inside him, “--wanted it to be _my_ p-pussy you were eating--”

Dean growls like a wild thing, mashing his face between Sam’s ass cheeks, stabbing his tongue viciously in and out before drawing away completely. He plugs Sam up with three of his thick fingers, going straight for Sam’s swollen prostate, fucking him with deft twists of his wrist. Sam toys with the head of his cock, so fucking close he could cry. He just needs-- he doesn’t know-- but he--

“You got the sweetest one I ever tasted, I swear to god,” Dean murmurs, dropping down to one elbow as the other hand continues to ruin Sam’s hole, rub mercilessly at his prostate, Sam’s fist banging into Dean’s firm stomach with the force of his strokes. “Taste how sweet your pussy is, little brother. Taste me, baby.”

Dean drives his tongue into Sam’s mouth for the filthiest kiss of his life, and that’s what does it. He shouts into Dean’s mouth, fucking down hard onto Dean’s fingers as he milks himself, his come making a hot, sticky mess between their chests. Dean doesn’t let up on kissing him, though, just gently removes his fingers from Sam’s sore, puffy hole, then rests his weight completely on top of his little brother, giving no shits about the globs of come between their tired, sweaty bodies.

Sam eventually needs air, so he nudges at Dean’s nose to let him know to back away slightly. Dean does, but with a put-upon sigh and gentle smile. He doesn’t go far, though, and that’s okay, because Sam wants him exactly where he is, nudging his nose again, but this time, with thanks.

Dean cups his face gently, searching Sam’s face with tired, content eyes, kissing him one last time. The kiss goes on and on, no tongue, no urgency. Just the meeting of their lips over and over, tasting each other, learning each other, loving each other. Loving each other so, so much.

“Shower?” Dean suggests finally. Their lips are completely numb, and if they let the come on their chests linger any longer, they’ll be stuck together, and not in the fun way.

As they stumble naked down the hallway to the shower, Dean insists Sam walk ahead of him. He’s so tired, he only realizes when they’re almost to the showers that Dean just wanted to stare at Sam’s ass as he walked. He feels like he shouldn’t be as absurdly pleased as he is, especially considering the smug smile on Dean’s face when he turns around, exasperated, hands on his hips.

“It’s just nice not to be the only bowlegged one for once,” Dean grins, opening the door to the shower rooms with a flourish.

Later, when they climb into Dean’s clean, cool sheets, they don’t hesitate to touch, to come together, to get close. It hardly seems real, these past forty-eight hours, because Sam _really_ isn’t used to getting anything he wants, let alone everything. 

But as Dean snuggles (there’s just no other word for the way he burrows his face into Sam’s neck, laying his hand protectively over Sam’s heart, before tangling their feet together under the covers) up to him against the memory foam mattress Sam knows will soon remember them both, he has to concede that this, right here, is real. 

And if he just so happens to doubt this all in the morning, well-- he’s no fool. He may or may not have been recording his own live stream, just for, you know. Reasons. He may or may not have plans to play it back for Dean tomorrow. So.

Looks like Dean will be borrowing the laptop again.

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotta pimp my betas, because like I said in my author's note above, they are seriously, SERIOUSLY talented. 
> 
> My favorite of non_tiembo_mala's is probably [Never In My Wildest Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7720270) (summary: Sam and Dean take a well-deserved day for themselves. They get a little drunk, one thing leads to another, and it turns out that - just maybe - everything they ever needed has been been in front of them all along.) but it's so hard to choose just one. I've read her fics so many times it's embarrassing. We constantly battle on who is the bigger fan of whom. 
> 
> My favorite of NaughtyPastryChef's is [It's Not What It Looks Like](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11058186) (summary: Working with a large group of people trained in observation has brought a lot of annoying comments to Sam and Dean recently. The tension and annoyance mounts until it finally reaches it's breaking point.) but again, all of her work is fantastic. She's also participating in the Kinktober challenge, so go check that out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/835836).
> 
> Story title from the song "Untold" by Pete Francis. [Listen here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpjktG5Vzg4) It's a great song!
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos bring me life. That's not an exaggeration. When things got really dark, I'd read over y'all's comments & remind myself that I have something to offer this world. That through this fandom, I was able to touch someone's life, or make their day better, or even just half an hour of their day better. That's how it feels when I read your comments. Thank you for your patience and devotion. Know that I love each & every one of you. Xoxoxo, L


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